


Before The End

by veiledndarkness



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before The End

**Author's Note:**

> Minor spoilers for season 6, in regards to the mention of Carl.

-

He sees them when he sleeps, usually. 

 

It wasn't much of a thought at first, and normally he wouldn't pay much mind to what he dreams about, until it starts happening more frequently, and not always when he's sleeping. Thinking about dreams isn't for him, never has been, and he's not about to bring them up with Merle, much less.

-

It's almost every night, flashes and snippets of a life he's never lived, of a world he doesn't know.

There's other people most of the time, men and women he's never met, a small baby, a motorcycle that isn't his brother's. His clothes are ripped and mended in makeshift ways, and in these dreams, he's rarely without his vest, or his crossbow.

There's blood, so much blood, dead bodies that have been mangled in ways that turn even his stomach. The world's faded, like it's the end, and there's some clock ticking down, minute by minute, a never ending heartbeat that echoes in a steady pulse of dread.

 

-

He wakes from these dreams covered in a cold sweat, his hand moving to push hair from his eyes, only to stop halfway through the motion with the awareness that his hair hasn't hung in his eyes since he was a teenager. 

He wakes with a phantom hunger, as if he's been far too long with far too little food, with the smell of dead flesh rotting in his nostrils, and the sounds of guttural moans fading from his ears.

 

-

It's the people he sees though, he could bear the strange dreams if it weren't for the rush of feelings he has when he sees these people, this ragtag group, this... _family_ that he's with. 

There's a woman with short silvery gray hair, wise eyes, and steely determination, a young Asian man with far too much empathy, the kind of person he's never befriended because Merle claims that races aren't meant to mix. There's a young boy with a sheriff's hat securely fitted over his shaggy hair, and a bandage over one eye, the sight of which haunts him long after the dreams dissipate. 

There's others, women with guns, knives, and one of them wields a katana that she keeps wickedly sharp. A man with a bushy orange moustache, a man with a mullet that perplexes him, and the baby, the sweet smile of a little girl as she's happily passed from guardian to guardian, they all mix together in a rush of amusement and loyalty and affection.

It doesn't escape him that Merle is nowhere to be seen in this apocalyptic world.

 

-

There's one man, one who stands out from the rest in these dreams, a man with blue eyes and the command of a natural leader, and his pulse soars when their gazes meet.

He wakes with his heart pounding, with a desperate longing buried deep in his chest, and the unshakeable knowledge that he'd go to the end for this man, that he'd do anything, and everything, that he asks.

The blue eyes haunt him.

 

-

He sees them though, glimpses of these people when he's awake, out of the corner of his eye, leaning in enough for him to almost see them, as if they're waiting for him, ghost like and just as fleeting. He sees the kind of houses he's never been around, never even seen except for on the cover of magazines, weapons in a cache, dead bodies staggering down roads, and walls made of metal all around them, the images blending and blurring, overlapping when he blinks.

He wonders if he's going crazy.

-

 

The flashes come, they go, and it dogs his every step, faces and places in a series of not quite there, yet not memories of this other life, of this other world, and he can't shake it. Names he can't recall, more maddening than he'd believe, on the tip of his tongue, but he can't pull them from his dreams. 

He loses track of how many times he almost mentions it to Merle, chickening out at the last minute when he starts to speak.

 

-

 

In the dreams, he tries to tell the blue eyed man what's happening, certain that this man will know, that he'll have an answer, but the words don't come. The man touches his shoulder, calls him 'brother' in a way that makes his stomach flip and his chest ache, a bittersweet smile on his face as the dream fades, and try though he might to stay, it fades anyway, leaving _him_ behind, Merle's snoring echoing in the next room.

He hates the dreams, hates the wash of sadness that lingers on.

 

-

 

Until...until he dreams again, dreams of the man touching his cheek, murmuring words that he can't quite hear, lips brushing in closer and he hears his name, breathed so quietly, and he can't help but turn his head, yearning, his heart pounding, the scratch of the man's beard on his skin, lips meeting his, and he sways into it, afraid and dizzy and thrilled.

The sense of loss the next morning is staggering.

 

-

 

The dreams fade away, they stop completely, even when he tries to force it, and nothing helps, no matter what, he can't bring it back, can't see any of the people, can't see the blue eyed man, can't see the world overrun with dead bodies. He tries, day after day, tries to remember anything at all, and to his horror, it trickles away, every detail slipping out of his grasp until there's nothing left.

 

He thinks sometimes that he once had dreams that mattered, but he can't recall why.

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> Summary quote is from Edgar Allan Poe.


End file.
